The Pools

by Bethan Roberts

  And he does. He lets go and I fall against him. His patchy stubble scrapes my forehead, and I get a face full of parka fur.

  Then he presses both hands on my head and shoves me down, hard, so I fall to my knees. Gravel drives into my shins. The broken ice of the puddle soaks into my tights.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, and puts his hand on my head, gently. He runs his big fingers through my hair, going up and down and round and round and round so I can’t see anything for all the hair he’s messed up over my face. As he’s groping my scalp, he moves my head gradually towards his groin, until the cool scratchiness of his fly zip is on my lip.

  ‘I’m not your girlfriend.’

  He laughs. He keeps messing my hair up with his hands. ‘I’m not your girlfriend.’

  His hands stop moving. Then he kneels in the puddle with me so we’re face to face, and he blinks his big wet eyes. His hair curls onto my cheek, he’s so close.

  I look at him. And I see that he’s nothing like Dad.

  ‘But,’ he whispers. ‘But – ’

  And nothing like me. But I have to end it.

  ‘I’m not your girlfriend, Shane.’

  ‘You are my girlfriend.’ He fixes me with the biology-diagram look. He sees all my veins, my blood and tissue. He examines me in close-up.

  I shut my eyes and keep my voice even. ‘No. I’m not. I’m Rob’s girlfriend now.’

  There’s a minute where I keep my eyes closed and he just breathes over me. Then I look at him and he falls back onto his haunches and bashes both fists into an icy puddle. Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash. Chips of ice fly over my hands and legs.

  I get up and try to run to the farm. But I can’t. Instead, I keep slipping and yelping, slipping and yelping like a puppy on the ice.

  In the turkey shed, I hook up my bird and pluck and pluck and pluck like nothing’s happened. My feet are numb with cold and wet, my knees throb from the stones. I keep plucking, plunging my fingers into the greasy feathers and ripping them out until all that’s left is a lank carcass of bird. It’s quiet in the shed tonight. There’s no squabbling noise from the pen outside. All the turkeys have been slaughtered by now.

  Luke and Rob stand close together, plucking.

  After a few minutes, Shane comes in and strides over to the end of the shed to fetch his bird. He hangs it up and begins to pluck.

  Then it’s like we’re in competition. Who can pluck the fastest. Who can strip a bird without stopping. Our hands dip in and out together. We throw feathers in each other’s direction. I pile up three naked birds in twenty minutes. They flop over each other in my basket and I just keep going to get more.

  ‘You OK?’ Rob leans across. His clean L’Oreal scent wafts over me as he glances down at my ripped muddy tights. ‘You’re quiet.’

  I smile at his flawless cheeks. ‘I’m fine.’

  Luke puts a hand on Rob’s shoulder and shoves his skinny blond head between us. ‘Can you hear the spacky grunting?’ he asks. ‘He sounds like a pregnant pig.’

  ‘He’s working hard,’ I say.

  ‘Is he – ’ Luke puckers his lips and makes a kissing sound, ‘your boyfriend?’

  ‘No, he is not.’ I rip out a handful of feathers and throw them at Luke’s face.

  He picks a feather off his lip and examines it for a minute. Then he says, ‘He’s your boyfriend.’

  ‘He is not my boyfriend. Shane is not my boyfriend.’ I spit out each word.

  I glance over at Shane. He stops plucking, just for a second. Then he starts again, double-fast.

  Rob clears his throat. ‘We’re leaving in the New Year. We’ve got enough.’

  Sheepskin Coat comes over. ‘Less chat, more work, you lot.’ He lifts Rob’s bird by its wing so it seems about to fly to the side. ‘Don’t forget these bits underneath. No one wants a mouthful of turkey fluff with their sprouts.’

  He nudges Shane between the shoulder blades with his clipboard. ‘You’re my best worker, Shane Pearce,’ he says. He holds the clipboard above his head and raises his voice. ‘Everyone. Look at Shane’s birds. Bald as your sister’s arse. That’s how all of them should be.’

  Shane doesn’t stop plucking.

  When Sheepskin Coat’s gone, I step away from my bird, wipe a hand on my skirt and fold my fingers over Rob’s arm. His donkey jacket looks rough, but it feels smooth. ‘I’ve got enough now,’ I say, ‘to come with you.’

  Rob ups his killer lashes.

  ‘To London,’ I continue, ‘we can all go together.’

  ‘She’s not coming,’ says Luke. His lips are as pale as his face.

  I laugh. ‘Didn’t Rob tell you?’

  Rob’s mouth hangs open, just like Shane’s. He blinks at me, at Luke, then at me again.

  I reach up and cup a hand round his ear, breathing in L’Oreal. The icy smoothness of Rob’s gold sleeper is on my lip as I whisper to him. ‘Help me.’

  Rob stares at me for a minute. I stare back and mouth the word please. He runs a hand through his gel-stiffened hair.

  ‘Rob?’ asks Luke.

  After a minute, Rob speaks. ‘It’s OK. Maybe we can – you know, work something out.’ His eyebrows arch in apology and he attempts to give Luke a half-grin.

  I sneak another look at Shane, who’s stopped plucking and is staring at the floor. His fists are clenched, hanging in big bunches by his sides.

  ‘We can all go together, Luke,’ I say.

  ‘And I suppose the spacky’s coming too?’ says Luke. He sticks his chin out of his white scarf and shoves his hands into the pockets of his bright blue Adidas jacket, pulling it down over his little hips. He faces Rob. ‘I suppose she’s bringing her spacky boyfriend? Why not just invite everyone, Rob?’

  ‘He’s not her boyfriend.’ Rob’s voice is soft. He touches Luke on the shoulder and smiles his full Smash Hits smile.

  ‘It’s OK. Really.’

  Luke huffs over his turkey.

  For the next fifteen minutes, everything seems to go quiet. There’s just the ripping sound of feathers being pulled. I try not to look in Shane’s direction. Luke sulks and Rob frowns.

  Then I notice Shane unhooking his bird. He takes time to arrange its bald wings and bloody neck so it’s all neatly packed in his basket and he carries the whole thing to the end of the shed. Sheepskin Coat pats him on the shoulder and digs in his big pocket for some coins.

  On his way out, Shane stops and stands very close behind me. ‘I’m going,’ he says. ‘You coming?’

  His breath is hot on my ears.

  ‘You coming?’

  Shane’s knees touch the insides of mine. Through the gash in my tights, I can feel the stiffness of his jeans. I fix my eyes on my turkey’s half-plucked wing.

  ‘You coming?’

  His chest heaves at my shoulders.

  I begin to wrench the stubborn feathers from round my bird’s neck. Its feet groan on the hook as I go in, twist, pull, go in again.

  Then Shane reaches down and tugs the hem of my skirt. He tugs so hard that the waistband digs into my hips and a blast of cold hits my midriff. I stop plucking. Shane keeps holding on to my skirt, pulling my arse towards his groin. The freezing rivets of the denim mini press into my flesh.

  ‘I’m not coming,’ I say. But my voice is barely a squeak.

  We stand together, Shane’s fists tight on the hem of my denim mini, his knees hard in the backs of mine. My turkey sways in front of me. For the first time this evening,

  I feel warm. I become aware of my heart beating.

  ‘She’s not coming, Shane,’ says Rob.

  ‘Get back to work, you lot!’ Sheepskin Coat hollers over from his table at the other end of the shed. ‘I won’t bloody tell you again.’

  Shane’s still holding on to me, and for a second I wonder what it would be like if he didn’t let me go.

  ‘Shane. She’s not coming with you.’

  His hands drop then. Whether he glares at Rob, or tries to answer him, I don’t know. But he lets me go. I
keep my eyes on my turkey’s wing, and I don’t move. I stand and listen to his heavy steps, feeling the cold air on my legs. I hear the creak and slam of the corrugated iron door.

  It’s quarter to seven and my fingers are raw from plucking. Turkey feathers look soft but they pierce your skin if you pull them the wrong way. A dribble of turkey shit has leaked into my coat cuff and dried there. Every time I lift my arm to pluck another feather I get a big raw whiff of it.

  Sheepskin Coat calls time. Luke and Rob rush off, shoulders touching as they squeeze out the door. Rob looks over his shoulder and lifts one hand. Gives me a half-wave. His earring winks in the electric light.

  I go to follow him but Sheepskin Coat calls me over. He leans back on his table and waits till everyone’s gone and we’re alone in the shed. Behind him, naked turkeys are slumped in a pile.

  ‘What did I tell you about trousers?’ he says, looking at my legs, his eyes going up, up, up.

  His worn corduroys sag at the knees. Down the front of his coat there’s a stain the shape of the map of Britain.

  ‘You’re distracting the others.’

  ‘It’s not my fault. They’re easily distracted.’

  He raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘Look. I don’t usually take girls on here. Not young ones, anyway. So I’m doing you a big favour. Don’t bugger it up.’

  ‘I’ll try my best to be good.’ I look up at him and flick my hair back.

  Eventually, he smiles. ‘Yeah. OK. Next time, come covered up, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t you like my legs?’ I ask, pointing a suede toe at his boot.

  He sighs. Shakes his head. Then he walks past me to the other side of the shed. ‘Just wear the trousers, love,’ he says, holding the door open.

  Outside, the black sky’s spotted with stars. Dad used to pretend he knew the constellations. ‘That’s the great elephant,’ he’d say, pointing upwards but looking into my face. ‘And that’s Joanna. The huntress.’ He’d begin to smile. ‘See her bow and arrow? You wouldn’t mess with her, would you?’ But all I ever saw were tiny dots of glitter.

  If I hurry I might catch them up.

  I walk across the field, past the power station. Sometimes I think the towers must have moved in the night. From the other side of the village they can look miles away. But from the field, now, the power station looks like the closest thing to me. It looks like I could reach out and touch the fat towers. I could get my hair tangled in the wires that stretch across the fields. I could frazzle my ends on the current.

  I think I see a bike light ahead. They must have been hanging about by the pools. Perhaps they’ve been kissing in the twitcher’s look-out.

  ‘Rob,’ I call. ‘Wait.’

  I start running a bit. ‘Rob! Wait for me.’

  And as I step in an icy puddle, I get an answer. It’s a very loud, sort of gargling sound. It’s somewhere between a shout and a scream. And it’s coming from the direction of the pools. My skin goes bumpy, like turkey flesh.

  Then it happens again, louder this time.

  For a few seconds, I can’t move. The sound echoes around me. The stars look brighter. The steam from the towers looks whiter. One blink seems to take a long time.

  ‘Joanna! Get out of here!’ I squint into the dark. A boy is racing across the field on his bike. He pedals as far as he can, then the bike swerves on the mud and he gets off and pushes, running alongside it so fast that the back wheel keeps kicking up from the ground.

  When Luke reaches me his face is grey. His eyes bulge with fear.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘For God’s sake, get out of here!’

  He pushes past.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I run after him. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Rob?’

  ‘There was an accident – he had a knife – I’ve got to get help – ’

  ‘What?’

  He’s gulping, crying. He drags his sleeve across his face, but doesn’t stop running. His back wheel’s bucking.

  ‘Luke, who had a knife?’

  I’m panting from trying to keep up with him.

  ‘Shane! That bloody spacky!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was a fight – Rob fell – ’

  ‘Who was fighting?’

  ‘Shane – he had a knife – ’

  I grab his arm. ‘Stop a minute! Where is he? Where’s Shane?’

  He looks at me like I’m mad. ‘I don’t bloody know! He ran off.’

  ‘Where’s Rob, then?’

  ‘He’s still in there! He’s in the pool!’ He lets out a cry, then, like the gargling sound I heard before. ‘He was cut, there was blood – he went under and – ’

  ‘Go and get someone,’ I say. ‘Quick.’

  I run back towards the pools. I don’t slip or yell this time, because my feet are light now. I have to find them, both of them. The steam is behind me as I sprint over the field.

  I go faster. I go faster. I go faster. Until I get to the biggest pool, and I see his bike.

  Rob’s bike. Rob’s racing bike is on its side in the mud. The handlebars are skewed in a smashed puddle of ice.

  My breath gathers and melts in my chest.

  I look around. There’s a big streak in the mud by the bike, like something’s been dragged through it. I step off the path and stumble through the skeleton trees, towards the pool. Brambles clutch at my tights. My foot slides on an old crisp packet and I grab hold of a knobbled branch, my feet skidding in opposite directions. I pull myself straight and peer over the silent water. Its covering of ice shines in the moonlight. It looks like cling film, sealing everything in, keeping it all down there, keeping it quiet.

  I call for him. ‘Rob,’ I call. Then, ‘Shane.’ I call again. I call for both of them. I don’t stop calling their names. ‘Rob,’ I shout. ‘Shane,’ I shout. Again and again I shout for them.

  But there’s nothing. Just dead leaves caught in the tangled twigs. The still lid of the ice on the pool. And my own breath, blooming and spreading in front of me. My own breath keeps blooming and spreading.

  epilogue

  Joanna

  Christmas, 1985

  Simon’s chocolate goes soft in my mouth. It leaves a gooey layer on my teeth. I run my tongue around my gums to clean it out. But my mouth still feels clogged.

  He’s staring at his gloved hands. ‘Your mother says you’re leaving.’

  Above us, the rooks scrape out another call.

  He pushes his glasses up his nose and moves closer along the bench, but doesn’t touch. ‘I think it’s a good thing. You know. You should be with your dad. I think it will be good. For all of us.’

  I nod, stretching my legs out in front of me. I dig the heels of my ankle boots into the mud.

  He fakes a cough. ‘We’ll miss you,’ he says. Then, ‘I’ll miss you.’

  I look at his face. That withered cheek. That fringe frozen into place. He tries a small smile.

  ‘Give me some more,’ I say. We look at each other, and then he hands me the chocolate.

  Together, we finish off the whole bar. We sit and look out at the bare trees and the still water and we eat and eat and eat as if we’re hungry. It makes my stomach feel twisted and sore, but I keep chewing and swallowing.

  When we’ve finished, he says, very quietly, ‘The police asked me about Shane.’

  I screw up the wrapper and throw it in the grass.

  ‘Joanna. They asked me about you and him.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘They said Luke told them there was a fight. A fight with Shane.’

  My mouth is dry and when I swallow it’s like it’s still clogged with chocolate.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ he says. He puts his head in his hands. Rubs at his temples. ‘I don’t know why. I said I didn’t know anything about him.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about him.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I suppose not. But you should have told them about hi
m, Joanna. Even if he didn’t do anything, even if it was an accident – ’

  ‘It was an accident. It said in the newspaper. Rob drowned.’

  I stand up and realise my legs are shaking. But I keep my voice steady. ‘Shane wouldn’t have hurt him. Not like that.’

  He looks at me for a long time, his eyes searching my face. My throat goes tight, but I will not cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. Then he hangs his head again and rubs at his temples.

  I turn from him but he grabs my sleeve and I let him hold it for a minute.

  ‘Wait,’ he says. He fishes in his pocket with his other hand. Then he dangles something long and shiny from one finger. ‘I’ve got you a present. Earrings. Your reward for our tutorials. And, you know, to say goodbye.’

  I look back over the pool. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  But I walk away without taking them, and he doesn’t come after me.

  Howard

  January, 1986

  I’ve taken a few weeks off work. They don’t quibble over long-term illness or bereavement. If you’re off with a stomach bug, there’s no end of enquiry. Questions about the exact nature of the sickness, how long you had it, what you took for it and how you’re feeling now. But mention death and everyone falls silent. No questions asked.

  You hear about people who can’t bear to enter the rooms of the dead, who can’t bring themselves to touch anything that once belonged to their lost loved ones. People whose grief is so great that they seal the door of the deceased’s room and leave everything just as it is, for years, as a kind of shrine.

  But I haven’t been able to get Kathryn to leave Robert’s bedroom. Since the funeral, she sits in there every day, lost in his sea of blue. I wait downstairs in the living room, a mug of tea going cold on the table in front of me, and listen to her footsteps above. I hear the springs of the bed moan as she sits herself down on his duvet. I hear the creak of his wardrobe door, and I imagine her reaching in to touch his jumpers, shirts, socks, again. I hear the groan of his drawers as she opens each one, and I picture her flicking through his sketchbooks, looking for something she hasn’t seen before.